No Simple Stories
I’m learning that there are no simple stories,
but each one is like layers of mattresses, stacked to the ceiling. We pull
off one, then another, then another, then another
and finally, maybe at the very bottom
there is a single pea.
There are no simple stories,
but one Russian doll, nested inside another, nested inside another
until finally, with a magnifying glass and tweezer
the last doll is revealed, with an atom
of ash on its cheek.
There are no simple stories
as anyone peeling an onion can tell you,
carefully pulling back the paper skin
and layer by layer working your way down
to more onion.
Today is all about those onions, those tears.